


her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you

by deemn



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, late blooming queer ladies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 21:33:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2443889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deemn/pseuds/deemn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things it could be: magical side effects, fixation, hatred, boredom, idle looking.</p><p>Things it can't be: feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from eshusplayground: What if Regina and/or Emma didn't know she liked women (a lot) until Storybrooke?  
> What would that be like for them?  
> Why now and not before?  
> Who would be the one to help them along this process?  
> Who would Just Not Get It (TM)?  
> Where would they go to find information, resources, inspiration, etc.?  
> How would this affect them?

It’s a subtle thing, at first.  She wouldn’t even think twice if not for the fact that she has to think twice about _everything_ , now, because if she doesn’t occupy her mind every moment of every day, she’ll drown.  She’s lost everything, and _again_ , and there’s no anger left—

So she thinks about everything.

Like how it’s a pity that curse-breaking has mellowed Ruby’s wardrobe.  And at first, she goes along with the idea that her nostalgia for bright red short-shorts is because of the entertainment value of watching Storybrooke’s male population fumble endlessly after Ruby’s ridiculously long legs.  

Except then Ruby breaks out a pair of pleather leggings and the attention Regina pays to the extended lines of her thighs has nothing to do with anybody else’s reaction.

But _honestly_ , she’s a connoisseur of life, it’s just basic aesthetic appreciation.  That’s all.

Really.  That’s it.

Until she runs smack into Kathryn at the grocery store—actually into, a full on collision, and it’s awkward and tense and Regina does everything to not make eye contact because—well.  Except she hasn’t avoided eye contact with anyone in thirty-five years and she’s honestly quite terrible at it.  Her gaze doesn’t go further than Kathryn’s lips.

They’re very pink.

For three hours afterwards, she tells herself that she should ask what lipgloss Kathryn uses.  Except most shades of pink look strange on Regina’s mouth—it doesn’t work with her coloring, it’s too in-between—so no, no asking after lipgloss that she would never in any world consider wearing.

Kathryn’s lips—the shape of them, the color, the way she’d moistened them nervously—pop into her mind repeatedly for the next month.

Ruby wears a blouse with a dramatic v neck and Regina can’t quite look away from the stretch of skin from clavicle to sternum.  Ruby offers her a tentative smile and a free refill of coffee and Regina almost stutters.

_Stutters_.  The Queen.  Over a _waitress’s smile_.

She stays home for a week, convinced she’s ill.

But she can’t quite stay away from the diner—not when it’s so close to where Henry’s staying, not when it’s ‘neutral ground’ where she can see him smile—and it doesn’t take long for Ruby to try small talk.  And Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby is always either painfully earnest or self-indulgently flirtatious and small talk is never earnest.

And the thing is, flirtation is a dance-fight and Regina just can’t _lose_.

Ruby flirts with her, and she flirts back because she can’t _not_ , and when Ruby smirks at her she feels her skin heat up, but when Ruby genuinely _smiles_ at her—right when Henry comes in to meet her—she feels her heart rate jump.

It confuses the hell out of her—so much so that she actually brings it up with Archie.  Well, mentions irregular heart rate as a possible side effect of refraining from magic when it’s so thick in the air, and he asks for details and she didn’t think far enough ahead and—

Right.

Archie looks at her with curiosity for a moment, then asks her to mark down every occasion when she feels an irregularity and what she’s doing when it happens.  Two weeks later, she throws a notepad at him and demands to know what the hell type of game he thinks he’s playing.

He asks her, calmly, what she thinks his motivations are.

She can’t even get words out, she’s so—so—she loves _Daniel_.  Regina and _Daniel_.  He says that perhaps love has nothing to do with it.  She practically snarls at him, reminds him that she has sex with _men_.

He asks her whether she’s ever considered sex with women and she storms out.

And then, because the universe apparently believes she’s its personal plaything, Emma Swan comes crawling out of a well, and maybe it’s the fairy magic and maybe it’s a heart murmur but she’s light-headed and her face is hot and something is _growing_ between her lungs and it _hurts_ and hurts _most_ when Emma looks at her with kindness and smiles at her with genuine relief.

They leave her behind and she wrecks her closet to get the energy and the thing between her lungs out, absolutely wrecks it—upends drawers, pulls suits from hangers and throws shoes still in the box against the wall.

Later, when she’s less—irate? devastated? disgusted with herself for daring to hope?—emotional, she starts putting clothes away and comes across one of her negligees, cobalt blue and torn at the shoulder, and when it all clicks into place, she tears the entire thing in half.

Because she remembers the last time she’d worn it—the night Emma took a chainsaw to her apple tree.  She remembers how she’d sent Graham a snappish text and how she’d tried and tried and tried to _push_ him, what she’d needed that night and how he just couldn’t wouldn’t didn’t know how—God, she’d ripped her own negligee when she’d shoved him away and demanded that he _be a man_ and fucking _take_ her.

He’d tried and failed and when she’d sent him home, she’d gotten herself off with her hands and her anger and something hazy and golden taking shape in her mind’s eye.

The next afternoon, Emma calls her and asks her to come to the potluck at the diner that night and that strange, alarming growth between her lungs doubles in size in the space of a minute.

Emma practically _glows_ when she sees her—just like their son, and _their son_ , God, she needs more therapy—and it’s pathetically easy to keep her claws back for the first twenty minutes.

Emma comes after her when she leaves and everything is all jumbled up—this _thing_ between her lungs and that hazy golden _thing_ from that night and she’s lightheaded and feverish and Emma has pretty pink lips and Regina has always appreciated the aesthetic value of her figure and Emma _wants her to stay_ —

She lingers in her study with her whiskey sour and her Nina Simone records and lets herself imagine a touch.  Just a light one, along the strong smooth lines of a denim-clad leg.  Just a light one, to pretty pink lips, turned down at the corners but just starting to shift towards a smile.  

Just a touch.  Just a light one.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s ridiculous.  Absolutely fucking ridiculous.

For Chrissakes, she’s _given birth_.

The more she tries to use that as a solid line of reasoning, the less relevant it becomes.  Especially because the kid she’d popped out happened to be raised by _Regina_.  Ms. Stupidly-Attractive herself.

It’s all Regina’s fault.

It was just supposed to be a fleeting thought.  Just like bringing Henry back to Storybrooke was supposed to be a half-day errand.  She’d pulled up, followed him up to the front door, and then just kind of _lost her fucking mind_.

Well, that’s harsh.  It’s not every day that the kid she gave up a decade ago ends up getting her introduced to the actual definition of MILF.

Fuck.  _She’s not even gay._

(Some dumb, vicious voice in the back of her mind reminds her that she also isn’t a mom.)

* * *

 

The problem is that Regina knows how to dress.  Emma knows it’s a problem because she’s started paying attention to how every other woman in town dresses.  

Emma fucking Swan does not do fashion watches.  She is not a _clothes_ girl.  She knows how to look sexy and she knows how to look tough and she’s never really had use for any other look so why the _fuck_ is she paying attention to the 1 st grade teacher’s dress?

_Because do first graders really need to see her knees?_ she tries to tell herself.  A very familiar dumb and vicious voice adds _Wonder what her thighs look like_ and then _Regina wears grey better, remember her ass—_

“Get to class, kid,” she tells Henry gruffly, and gets back in the car.

* * *

 

Regina fucks Graham and Emma feels sick to her stomach.

She thinks about Graham’s slim straight hips and a flash of those hips between strong smooth thighs and large rough hands on honey-sweet skin—

She feels sick to her stomach.

* * *

 

The problem is that Regina likes to treat personal space like bubble wrap and pop it at a measured, methodical pace.

The problem is that those big, soulful doe-eyes have actual magic powers.

The problem is that Regina’s perfume has hints of ginger, vanilla bean and jasmine and it’s bold-sharp-homey-sweet all at once and _who has a perfume to match their personality anyway_?

The problem is that everything around Regina is charred to ash and a single puff will send it all tumbling down and Emma is a nor’easter and wishes like hell that she weren’t.

The problem is that Regina holds danger around her the way Emma keeps her best-balanced boot knife sharpened; because there’s always a fight coming and sometimes the only way out is with a series of stabs to the gut.

The problem is that if it meant seeing something as pure as the love and relief she’d seen on Regina’s face the first night, and at the mine, and every other moment where it’s the Regina+Henry show again, Emma would let herself be gutted like a fish.

* * *

 

She asks Mary Margaret what being drawn to David felt like.  Except it’s a denial week so it didn’t feel like anything, there are no feelings there whatsoever.

Right.  Super helpful.

She spends one of her afternoons off nursing a tepid cup of coffee in the diner and watching as Ruby charms everyone who comes in, body language shifting for every person.  It’s a different dance every time.  Sometimes it’s charm, sometimes it’s flirtation, sometimes it’s a strange hovering intimacy.

She can’t tell whether Ruby genuinely gives a fuck about a single person.  All the transitions are seamless.  One long dance to a sequence of song clips that only Ruby can hear.

Regina in her council meetings, in her office, on the street—she’s the same way.  No cracks.  

Emma orders a speed bag off of Amazon and digs through her old duffel bag for tape for her hands.

* * *

 

Ruby looks at her busted-up hands and her jumping leg and tears off the bottom of the receipt, scribbles something on it.  “It’s mostly free.  You can pay for the HD stuff.”

When Ruby’s left with Emma’s five dollars and ten cents, Emma picks up the scrap of paper and immediately crumples it in her hand, glances around with her cheeks growing hot.

Two nights later she types the website into her incognito browser and tries her standard fare—light bondage, exhibitionism, office scenarios—and nothing’s _doing it_ for her.  She clicks hardcore and just as quickly clicks out of it.  The words _female-friendly_ catch her eye—because honestly, what utter bullshit, when is porn female-friendly—and the third video she tries gets a slight hum rising, but it isn’t until she watches a threesome where the two chicks pretty much make the dude an accessory to an oral fest that it really _clicks_.

She slams her laptop closed and sets it aside, lies absolutely still for close to twenty minutes.  And then she reaches for the laptop again and opens it up and clicks on the lesbian category and forcibly shuts the dumb and vicious voice in her head up.

* * *

 

She shouldn’t keep waking up like this.

Regina’s fucking framing her roommate for murder and getting away with it and for a week straight Emma’s been dreaming of pushing her back on her stupid tech-free desk, taking her panties off with her teeth and licking her cunt until she’s screaming for mercy or for more, doesn’t matter which.

Basically, she’s been watching way too much porn.

She’s not gay, she reminds herself, and thinks of the flash of bright blue lace she’d glimpsed down Regina’s shirt the other day, and slips a hand beneath her waistband with a whimper.

* * *

 

Leaving is the best bet.

Everything will be simpler if she leaves.

Things will get better for Henry.

Regina will stop being so fucking _batshit_ if she’s gone.

She will be fucking _normal_ if she’s not in this fucked up town anymore.

Leaving is the best bet.

* * *

 

“I _do_ love you,” Regina says to their little Lazarus boy, and Emma feels it like a serrated blade to her belly.

* * *

 

She wonders how Regina dealt with ogres.

She wonders how Regina dealt with no running water.

She wonders how Regina waited so fucking long to cast the curse in the first place.

She wonders if Regina is alive, and taking care of their son, and if now that everyone remembers who they are, if there’s someone who maybe loved her—still, still, still.  Someone who loved her still.

She thinks of Henry’s quiet plea and Regina’s soft sweet smile and the way she’d smelled just lightly of sweat beneath the ginger-vanilla-jasmine.

Cora smells like copper and salt.  Emma can smell her from three meters away.  “Magic,” Mulan tells her.  “You can smell her magic.”

She thinks of Regina, and sweat and jasmine, and at Mulan whose eyes don’t leave Aurora for more than a minute.

“Is that useful?” she asks, and Mulan shrugs.

“It can be.”

It’s as much as she’ll get right now, so she nods, and keeps messing with the compass.

* * *

 

Aurora’s attempts at physical badassery are kind of laughable.  They’re also surprisingly courageous and Emma finds herself watching the girl with a combination of wariness and… appreciation.

She keeps her face neutral, though, because she’s pretty sure that if Mulan catches her staring, her eyes will be forcibly removed with a rusty spoon.

It’s that certainty that makes her ask, when they’re on watch together.  “It’s not about Phillip, is it?”

For a moment, there’s pure fear all over Mulan’s face, replacing the warrior-stoicism Emma’s come to expect.  “It is about duty and—“

Emma shakes her head, sighs.  “Responsibility.  Honoring your promises.  Yeah.  That’s what I keep saying, too.”

* * *

 

The next time they’re on watch, Mulan clears her throat twice.  “You—understand, then?”

Emma looks over to where Aurora and Snow are sleeping.  “I think I’m in the same boat.”

There’s that extra hesitation while Mulan translates her idioms.  “It’s not… _done_.  Here.  But—where you’re from—is it…?”  She trails off with a sickeningly hopeful expression.

“It happens,” Emma says quietly, and leaves out all the parts about how complete strangers try to destroy _love_ just because.  “It’s… there’s room.”

Mulan nods, continues cleaning her armor.  “Is it—you said you share—“

“Yeah,” Emma says quickly, because saying it out loud—she just can’t let that happen.  “I mean, I think.  I don’t really know.  It’s never—I’ve never—I mean, I had a kid, you know?”

She isn’t being clear; Mulan looks confused.  “What does that have to do with what you feel now?”

It’s a really fucking good question.

* * *

 

She climbs through a well and the first thing she feels is a small solid body colliding with her legs but the first thing she sees is Regina getting to her feet.

She clutches Henry close and looks at Regina and prays that her knees don’t give out.

* * *

 

Thinking of the Evil Queen as _adorable_ is probably a cardinal sin.

Definitely.  Regina would probably eviscerate her just for suggesting it.

But the sheepish smile she comes in with and the way her voice is high and sweet when she says “Sorry I’m late”—and why Snow _twitches_ , Emma doesn’t quite understand—Regina’s _fucking adorable_.

So when the grumbles behind her take a solid form, she steps up.  Because this—seeing fire and brimstone Regina able to be shy and sweet and doting on Henry—this is pretty much the best part of magic.  “I invited her,” she says strongly, and out of the corner of her eye sees Regina duck her head, like she wants to hide her expression.

Emma hopes it’s a smile.  She really, really hopes it’s a smile.

Later, after she’s fumbled over “Don’t leave” and fucked up the “our son” parts of things, she wonders who was the last person to get an immediate apology from Regina.  If there’s someone _here_ who—

She shakes her head, and closes her eyes.  Attraction is one thing.  Anything more is insanity.

* * *

 

Emma sets the dreamcatcher down and tries not to vomit.

Attraction is one thing.  Anything more is insanity.

* * *

 

In the end, it’s those damn doe-eyes and that soft sweet smile.

She tries to walk away because anything more is insanity, she _knows_ this, but she’s pretty sure if she doesn’t kiss Regina at least once then nothing will ever be worth anything again.

So she turns around, and Regina starts pouring magic into the diamond, and nothing will ever be worth anything again.


	3. Chapter 3

When Snow calls her downstairs, she’s trying to pick out which of her plain long-sleeved tees is most flattering (even though they’re all the same cut and general color family) because of course she got shafted for the laundry machines.  Stupid Henry and his stupid school uniforms and his stupid baseball uniforms.

So she yells back, “Clothing crisis!” and expects to be left alone, but Snow calls again and sounds vaguely strangled, so Emma grabs her worn-out Saints jersey and slips it over her head, practically tumbles down the stairs and starts grumbling right away.  “Snow, I’ve got like four minutes to find a shirt that doesn’t scream teenage delinquent…” and she trails off when she sees the look on Snow’s face and Henry sitting on one of the stools with her laptop on the island between them.  “What’s going on?”

Snow’s mouth purses, flattens.  “I think you need to have a talk with Henry about appropriate media consumption.”

If this is another rant about how Call of Duty is not—wait, why her laptop?  “Uh—could you elaborate?” Emma asks, and takes a hesitant step forward.

Snow opens up the laptop and hits spacebar and even though the headphones are still plugged in, Emma can almost hear the panting and whispering and she freezes in absolute terror.  Because of course she got lazy yesterday and just slapped the laptop closed and it probably doesn’t matter that it’s an actual _movie_ on Netflix, it’s—

Oh, fucking hell, fucking hell, fucking hell.

There’s a close-up of a mouth closing around a dark nipple and Henry squeaks, pinches his eyes shut.

Oh, fucking hell, this is happening in front of her son.

Snow slaps the laptop closed and puts her hands on her hips.  “What do you have to say for yourself, Henry?”

And when Henry looks over at her with fear and uncertainty but absolute devotion—she can see it all over his face.  If she asks, he’ll claim this for her.  He’ll do this for her, no hesitation.

God, she and Regina made a really good thing.

“It’s not his,” Emma says quietly, and Henry gives her the smallest smile.

“Well it’s not David’s,” Snow snaps, and then there’s a long silence and a slow, slow widening of her mother’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Emma says, and shoves her hands in her front pockets.

“Oh,” Snow says.

Emma turns her body towards Henry, tilts her head toward the stairs.  “Kid, go call your mom, tell her to come pick you up.”

“But it’s _family_ dinner—“

“I’ll come over later.  Maybe for dessert.  Go on.  Don’t forget your books for Monday.”  She doesn’t even know how she’s breathing and talking and thinking ahead to Monday right now, but she needs Henry to _not_ be here for this and oh, Jesus, she just got outed by her mother in front of her son via an indie flick and oh, God, where’s the liquor.

Henry slides off the stool and heads towards the stairs, veers off course to hug her tightly and whisper something against her shoulder— _fuck,_ he’s getting tall—that sounds a lot like, “I’ve got your back.”

They did a really good thing, somehow, someway.

They wait the seven minutes it takes for Regina to drive across town and pick him up.  When the door closes behind him, Emma takes a seat at the island.  Snow still hasn’t moved.  “You haven’t said anything.”

“I’m—Emma, this is _gay porn_.”

The urge to hysterically giggle is almost irrepressible.  “It’s not, actually, it’s a really good indie movie about—whatever.  Um, yeah.  It’s two women having sex.”

“Why would you _watch_ that?”

She sputters, because talking vaguely about sex with Mary Margaret had been one thing, but there’s no way she’s going into the ins and outs of turn-ons and titillation with her _mother_.  “Uh—for—um—“

Snow seems to catch on, waves her hand for Emma to stop.  “No, I mean—why would _you_ watch that?”

“… Is that a trick question?”

“I mean, I’d understand David, and Henry, but—“

“Wait, _seriously_?”

Snow blinks at her.

“You get dudes _including your grandson_ watching lesbian porn but a chick watching lesbian porn escapes you?”

“But you’re not a _lesbian_!”

The fact that Snow whispers the last word—Emma completely deflates.  “What if I am?” she asks quietly.

“But you’re not.”

“How do you know?”

“Well— _Neal._ And—and Graham!  And you had that weird thing with Hook—“

“You mean the thing where I tried not to kill him for verbal sexual harassment?  That thing?”

Snow opens her mouth and closes it and opens it again.  “Are you saying you’re a lesbian, Emma?”

She wants, more than anything, to say _yes_ and have it be that simple.  “I’m saying… I’m attracted to women.”

“So you’re a lesbian.”

She takes two deep breaths.  “I’m attracted to women.”

Snow just blinks at her.  “Are you sure?”

“…What?”

“I mean—maybe it’s just a side effect of your magic?  Women are more magic-receptive than men, maybe it’s just… that.”

“It’s not a side effect of magic,” Emma says quietly, and tries to keep her voice steady.  

“And it’s not—I mean, you haven’t dated in a long time, maybe—“

“Snow, I’m attracted to women.”

“But _why_?”

 _Get out of here_ says a soft sweet voice in the back of her mind.  _Get to safety_.

 _Tell the truth_ says the dumb and vicious voice.  _Go hard or go home, right_?

“I’ve gotta get dressed,” she mumbles, and stands up.  “Henry—family dinner’s important to him.”

“We’re not done—“

“Yeah, we are,” she interrupts tiredly.

Snow rubs her temples, smooths out the lines of her brow.  “I just—I don’t get how this _happened_ , Emma.”

“Yeah.  That’s kind of the problem,” Emma sighs, and heads up the stairs.

* * *

 

She chooses a black tank, grey hoodie and her blue pleather jacket and ends up driving around Storybrooke for a good hour before she turns onto Mifflin and pulls into the driveway.

Regina opens the door like she’s surprised Emma’s there, which is ridiculous because _free food_.  “Henry said there was… some tension.  I didn’t actually expect you to make it over.”

Emma shrugs, thumbs hooked into her front pockets.  “There was.  Dinner’s important to him.”

Something at that soft sweet mouth shifts.  “We finished eating already.”

“Oh.”

“We haven’t had dessert, though.”  The door opens wider and Regina nods at her, gently.

Henry’s in the kitchen, trying to sneak another ladleful of rice pudding into his bowl—well, _Regina’s_ rice pudding, which is on another level from rice pudding entirely—before they catch on.  “Hey, Ma,” he says, and lets the ladle drop into the serving bowl with a loud _plop_ , comes over to hug her tightly.  “You okay?”

When she goes to ruffle his hair, her hand is even with her mouth.  It’s fucking weird.  “Yeah, kid, I’m good.  Where’s the food?”

Behind her, Regina scoffs, but goes around the island to open the oven—Emma keeps her eyes on the counter, on the counter, Henry is watching she is only going to look at the counter—and takes out a foil-covered plate, slides a trivet across the island and puts the plate down on top of it.  “Careful, the plate’s hot,” Regina says, as if Emma’s a moron, and hands her a fork and knife.

She peels back a corner of the foil to see green beans and stewed chicken and rice and her stomach gurgles with anticipation.  “You kept a plate?” she asks, and Regina just rolls her eyes, slaps Henry’s hand away from the rice pudding again.

“So what happened?” Regina asks, after Emma burns her index finger twice and Henry’s helped himself to a second or third serving of pudding.

Henry goes still for a moment, and Emma looks at him and smiles as kindly as she can before looking at Regina.  “I came out to Snow,” she says evenly.  “Or—I kind of accidentally outed myself.”

And she waits.

But Regina just nods, holds her gaze steady.  “How did that go?” she asks, and her voice is low and gentle, the voice she uses when Henry’s falling asleep on the couch or at the table.

So Emma shrugs, chews a mouthful of chicken and swallows before speaking.  “I don’t really know, actually.  It could’ve been worse but probably not by much?”

Henry’s shoulders slump.  “Should’ve just said it was me,” he mumbles, and Regina shoots Emma a questioning glance.

“Had to happen sometime, right?” Emma murmurs, and nudges him with her elbow.  “Besides, what kind of cool mom would I be if I got you on porn watch before you’re even into porn?”  And then she adds, quickly, “This _is_ before you’re into porn, right?  You’re pre-porn?”

Henry turns bright red and Regina’s gaping at them both.  “What—what does porn have to do with this?  Why are you casually discussing _porn_ with our son?”

The hysterical giggles she’s been suppressing for two hours finally burst out of her.  To her relief, Henry joins in.

* * *

 

Later, when Henry’s finishing the dishes and Regina’s pouring them both her latest cocktail fascination—light rum and sweet vermouth, something about Jean Harlow?—Emma says, quietly, “She says she doesn’t know how this happened.”

Regina’s familiar movements with the crystal bottles slow and stop, then resume.  “That’s what she said?”

“Yeah.”  Emma straightens one of the picture frames on the wall.  “I was thinking that, until this… settles, Henry should probably not do nights at the apartment.”

Regina looks up, startled, and Emma watches carefully as that soft sweet mouth struggles to stay emotionless.  “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

Regina holds out a glass to her, and those dark doe-eyes gleam in the incandescent light.  “You know that you’re always welcome here.”

Emma thinks about three years ago and how they’d both expected her to never set foot in this house again.  “Yeah.  I know,” she says, and takes the drink.


End file.
